


Devil in a Hightower

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Leave Her to Her Game [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Betrayal, Book 4: A Feast for Crows, F/M, House Martell, Leave Her to Her Game, Modern Westeros, Organized Crime, People of Color in ASOIAF, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 08:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21240854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: Modern - AUBefore Sarella Sand was a world-traveling contract killer and expert hacker, she was a Citadel student. Fresh off earning her seventh link and presenting a riveting thesis, she meets Mathis Hightower, son of Baelor Brightsmile and heir to Beacon, the Hightower tech and media empire. He's every warning she's heard about Westerosi men personified: selfish, arrogant, entitled...Unfortunately, he's also very hard to resist.





	Devil in a Hightower

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it's only me and you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904588) by [xdarksistahx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdarksistahx/pseuds/xdarksistahx). 

> Very special thank you to @letternumber7 on Twitter for contributing her expertise on Hightower lore and encouraging this fic. Couldn't have put this together without her.
> 
> This started as a two-part story, but it felt better as a one-shot.

_ **PRESENT DAY**_

Whenever Sarella's grandmother comes to town, she insists on dining at The Hightower.

Formerly the ancient seat of its namesake family, the Hightower is the commerce center of Oldtown, home of the city's bank, the Hotel Hightower, and offices of the Beacon app. Twenty years ago, Baelor Hightower launched The Beacon as the country's first digital newspaper. Later, his eldest son Mathis developed personal profile and mobile app components, positioning Beacon as the country's Internet hub--and the Hightowers as owners of an uncomfortable amount of Westeros's data.

One of the many reasons Sarella hates dining at their restaurant.

Once the high hall of the old Hightower castle, the restaurant boasts black marble floors and long, wide windows that face the Honeywine and Whispering Sound. The structure used to be isolated in the water, on a rock called Battle Island. Now it's attached to mainland Oldtown via a suspension bridge, though tourists find charm in traveling to the tower by boat as they did in the old days. Sipping Arbor gold from an inconspicuous seat in the middle of the restaurant, Sarella recalls nights in the private dining room, watching tiny boats full of couples dot the harbor's dark waters.

She shakes the thought and wishes, for the millionth time in the last twenty minutes, that her grandmother wasn't running late.

She smells him first--the familiar blend of mint, nutmeg, and sandalwood. His shadow stretches across the white linen-covered table, indicating that he's standing behind her. If only she carried knives in her underclothes like Nym...

"I always loved the contrast of your skin on these table cloths."

Sarella fingers the stem of her wine glass, refusing to turn around and meet what she knows are smirking eyes, a smug grin, and a neatly-bearded square jaw. "Hello, Mathis."

* * *

** _THREE YEARS PRIOR_ **

"Emma!" Sarella giggles tipsily at the barmaid, sliding her credit card across the long, wooden bar at the Quill and Tankard, her classmates Armen and Mollander tagging behind her. "A pitcher of Fearsomely Strong Cider, please. And don't let it go empty."

Emma's round face lights up. "Someone's earned another link?"

"Presented her thesis for her seventh link," Armen bragged. "And blew the old bastards away. Even Vinegar Vaellyn was impressed."

After three years studying Science, Technology, and Society, Sarella's final Citadel project was the prototype for a cross-platform messaging app called Raven's Scroll. If developed, it would connect all of Westeros across mobile devices and computers with an encrypted alternative to the popular messaging service on the Beacon app. Sarella wouldn't have time to develop the idea--she would be too busy training with her father and sisters--but she would publish her research on ethics and privacy for the Citadel's library.

"Well, congratulations," Emma pours a large pitcher. "Looks like the party's already started."

Mollander puts a heavy arm around Sarella. "Our dear friend insisted we do rum shots before we left." He holds up a glass of cider. "To Sarella, one of the brightest Acolytes to ever walk among the Grey Sheep!"

"Here, here!" Emma and Armen join in.

From the corner of her eye, she spots a familiar frame, pale, with ash-blonde hair. Of course, she thinks. The evening is almost identical to the night she cut him; Sarella and friends celebrating her latest academic feat with Leo Tyrell intruding on their good time. This time there's no "Pate." And Leo--per Oberyn and Olenna's peace deal--will be on his best behavior. Then there's that nasty scar under one of his haughty hazel eyes. She likes to think she did him a favor. His previous handsomeness was so dull; at least his face has some character now.

They exchange a glance and a silent agreement to keep their distance.

With him is Mathis Hightower, slightly taller with broader shoulders; certainty in his bright blue eyes. The Hightowers owe fealty to the Tyrells--as most "legit" families do with the family that runs its region, but it's clear that Mathis, the heir of a firstborn Hightower son, holds more weight than Leo, the third son of a third-born Tyrell. Though, she wonders, as she watches his ease with his surroundings if his surname is the sole source of his confidence.

Determined to ignore Leo, she invites Armen and Mollander to play a couple of rounds of darts before they're too drunk. She easily bests Mollander, whose hand-eye coordination is dodgy when sober. Armen is more of a challenge, but she beats him, too. When neither man wants another round, they bet if Sarella can beat her previous record of eight bullseyes out of ten tries. When she ends with seven, she shrugs. "The day you make them all is the day you stop improving. Let's get another round."

Mathis Hightower approaches, carrying a full pitcher of cider. "You appeared to be running low."

Sarella studies him. With his rolled-up white shirtsleeves and neatly-trimmed brown beard and mustache, he's perfectly disheveled. Too perfect, she thinks. Yet something compels her beyond his good looks. "I already have a tab," she says. "And I only drink with friends."

"Let's fix that." He offers his hand, lightly-haired around the knuckles with short, clean fingernails. "Mathis Hightower. And you're the brilliant Sarella Sand."

She raises a brow. "Have we met?"

"My father and I toured the Citadel today and sat in your thesis presentation. Very impressive," he leans in. "When I learned you were also the fierce daughter of Oberyn Martell who gave Leo his scar...I had to meet you."

Any friend of Leo's was no friend of hers. "You should keep better company."

"Exactly why I'm talking to you. Leo's more a friend of the family. My father wants to bring him on at Beacon. But trust me; I don't share Leo's...." he pauses, "ideas."

She considers this as she picks up another dart. "Let me guess," she aims and hits the ring just outside the bullseye. "You don't see color."

He smiles, living up to his father's "Baelor Brightsmile" nickname. "Oh, I see every bit of color on you. I wouldn't mind seeing more," he pours two glasses of cider. "But more than that, I'm curious about your messaging app."

Yes, she thinks to herself. _I bet he is curious about potential competition_. She's willing to entertain the flirting. The rest... "You've known me for two minutes and have asked to fuck me and pick my brain. How bold."

He shakes his head. "Not bold--efficient. You don't strike me as a girl with time to waste."

Sarella squeezes past him to accept the glass of cider. He smirks arrogantly when she is just shy of rubbing against him. "You're right," she says. "I'm not. But thank you for the drink, Mathis."

***

Her mother warned her about Westerosi men.

Jolona insisted Sarella grow up in the Summer Isles, partly due to Westeros's reputation as a "backward, brutish" country with outdated views on gender. "It may be different with Dornishmen," her mother always made an exception for Oberyn, "but most of them see sexual pleasure as a prize they win, not an experience to share. When the time comes to explore your body, Sarella, be cautious. Even the best Westeros men are selfish lovers compared to what you'll find at home."

Despite leaving for the Citadel at 16, she found her mother's advice easy to follow. A port city, Oldtown was full of Summer Islanders occupying shops and neighborhoods near the docks. Her first was an 18-year-old son of a restaurant owner from Walano named Daras and as reverent and patient as her mother promised. Less so, as Sarella learned her body's desires and required a firmer touch. Her first Dornishman, a bastard of House Qorgyle, proved equally interested in pleasure for pleasure's sake, though he was a little brasher. In her three years at the Citadel, she shared time with a few more lovers, always heeding her mother's warning.

She can't understand why Mathis makes her want to reconsider.

But that is exactly what she does when she runs into him at the library a few days later.

He's dressed just the same as before and she wonders if the white shirt with rolled sleeves is a uniform of sorts. He finds her in a reading nook with a copy of Fire & Blood by Archmaester Gyldane. "That's light reading for a mind like yours," he says.

"I need a break from copyediting my thesis," she closes the book. "And reading about your ancestors starting a civil war is fascinating."

Mathis joins her on the cushioned reading bench. "You know what they say about maester propaganda."

"They say that your family funds the Citadel--"

"Speaking of family history," he interrupts, leaning back and spreading his legs. "You come from an impressive line, yourself. Xanda and Chatana Qo: saviors of the Summer Isles."

"You're well-versed in Summer Isles history?"

He nods. "I've been coming to this library since I was five. Read 50% of its collection--including Maester Gallard's Children of Summer."

Sarella tries and fails to hide her smile. "What was a little rich boy doing hiding in library stacks?"

"I could ask the same of you. You're in line to run two multi-national enterprises, correct? Yet you're here. Presenting advanced tech to teachers who've never seen amounts of money you could flush down a toilet. Why?"

Because tech research was an excellent cover for training and running recon on her father and sister's missions. But it's more than that. She fell in love with Oldtown as a little girl. "Following my father's footsteps, I guess. He speaks highly of his time here. And learning's more fun than shilling rum or lingerie."

For a moment, he stares at her as if a unicorn just walked by. "So the same reason I spent my childhood hiding in these stacks--a thirst for knowledge. You are truly exceptional."

She rolls her eyes. "You won't flatter me out of my clothes, Mathis."

"No," he says. "I don't think I will. But I could do plenty with your clothes on. Right here in this library, in fact."

She hopes the hitch in her breathing is inconspicuous. It isn't.

He moves closer, a smirk spreading across his bearded face. "That's the thing about curious minds. We have vivid imaginations. Like I'm imagining what we could get up to in those stacks over there. And you struggling to keep quiet so we don't get caught."

He presumes too much. She should say so. Instead, her mind goes to just that scenario, sending an uncomfortable tingle down her spine. What would it be like...? She clears her throat and straightens her posture. "You take me for a toy you can play with on command?"

"I take you for someone who enjoys games. Tell me I'm wrong."

But she can't. She's the same girl who gave up seats in two boardrooms for a life of contract killing with her father and sisters. Who caught a Faceless Man assigned to follow her and let him live because he amused her. Who was now seated in front of a man she can't trust any farther than she can throw and somehow still wants to know how he'd feel inside her. In two encounters, Mathis unearthed a truth she could never articulate: games are her weakness.

Sarella stands and gathers her things. "This has been interesting," she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "But I have to go--appointment with Archmaester Marwyn."

He knows she's lying. It's in his eyes while he looks up at her. "Let's have dinner tomorrow night at the Hightower. And we can just...chat. Like two like-minded people. About whatever comes to mind."

"I'll have to check my schedule," she replies, not turning to look at him before walking away.

"Or you can just be ready at nine. I'll send a car for you...And wear heels."

She pretends to be unfazed, giving no further reply as she continues down the hall. There's no need.

***

It's strange how an evening that felt monumental at the time can fade from memory. That first night at the Hightower lived as mere flashes in her mind. Most of their banter--no matter how witty it seemed--melted away, lost in a fog of better conversations with cleverer men. What Sarella recalls years later are sensory details. The evening breeze blowing up the high split on the mustard gold dress she wore. Her strappy heeled sandals clicking against white floors when she is escorted through the Beacon's offices. The dark gaze in Mathis's eyes when he invites her to have a seat on his glass desk and pours two glasses from a 20-year vintage bottle of Sweet Lotus rum.

She takes a sip, basking in the familiar taste of home. "Is there a Reachwoman--a Redwyne or Tyrell daughter--who would be upset I'm here?"

"I won't marry for at least another three years, though my mother would surely disapprove of what we're about to do in this office," he stares hungrily at the juncture of her crossed legs. "And you? Stunning, clever. Passionate, I'm sure. But no paramours to speak of?"

"I've enjoyed men," she says with a smile."But I was barely flowered when I came to Oldtown. The Citadel has been my paramour." He nods and moves closer, nudging her legs apart with his body. She senses he's finished talking for now, but she has to ask: "Would it matter if I had someone?"

"Not at all."

Her climax precedes their first kiss. There, on his desk, his hands reach for her bare legs as if they itch to touch her, relief falling over his features when he encounters her skin. Curious fingers pad up her thighs, his once-playful eyes blazing blue flame. It's too much, enduring his stare and the heat of his caress. She casts her eyes to the ceiling for a moment of reprieve, but he stops. "Eyes on me," he commands.

His tone brings her back to her senses, even as he inches closer to her obvious excitement. "Demanding, aren't we?" She awaits his arrogant smirk, but it doesn't come. His face remains stone, eyes burning as two fingers find her entrance. "See?" he teases with shallow strokes, "you like games. And I'm starting to think..." She sighs when he finds her clit and her insides grip his advancing fingers. "...that you enjoy surrender."

Sarella doesn't know how long it lasts, his touching, teasing and staring. But her chest is heaving, hips moving on their own accord when the tingle starts at the base of her spine. Two fingers curl inside her and she goes lightheaded, hot waves bursting from her center and rolling to the tips of her toes. That is when they kiss. With her walls still shivering around his gentle touches, he stands and captures her lips with his, swallowing her pants with teasing kisses.

Every time after their first becomes "that time in the Hightower." That Time in the elevator with her hands pinned to the glass, watching the boats in the Whispering Sound below while he had her from behind. That Time she straddled him on the grand chair in the old Lord's Library and he asked: "where she learned that thing with her hips." That Time in the restaurant after hours when he spread her on a white linen-covered table and devoured her. Mathis proves her mother's warning correct: he is the most selfish lover she's ever had. Too bad Jolona couldn't predict how much her daughter would enjoy a man treating her pleasure as his to coax out at whim.

***

She is not surprised, four months later, when he confesses that his parents are pressing marriage. They are in a private dining room in the Hightower, sipping Arbor Gold after fucking against one of the windows. She's still in his white shirt, the too-long sleeves pushed up to her elbows. His dark slacks are slung low on his waist, the belt that held them up somewhere between the door and the table.

"I would like to keep seeing you," he says, after announcing that he's dating Desmera Redwyne. "But if this is the end, I'm immensely grateful. I figured you'd be amazing, but this has been more...than anything I imagined."

Sarella is supposed to feel something upon hearing this. Any of her sisters would be apoplectic, but she can't conjure any rage. With her thesis edited and in-process for publishing, she would start training with the other Sand Snakes in earnest. She couldn't maintain a low profile running around with a Hightower. "What exactly did you imagine?" she asks, passively curious about his remarks.

"The Dornish are notorious. And your mother's heritage... Two cultures so singularly focused on pleasure could only produce a marvel." He's relaxed. Too relaxed. His skin flush with feel-good endorphins and hair messy from her pulling a few minutes prior. The words roll off his tongue without thought.

She remembers their conversation in the library when he first invited her to the Hightower. How he spoke of imagination and curious minds. The true source of his curiosity dawns on her. _"The Dornish will fuck anything"_ Leo Tyrell snivels in the back of her head.

Sarella grips the stem of her wine glass but stops herself, remembering her father's warning about men: _"If you saddle yourself with a fool or a brute, don't look to me to rid you of him."_ He would not pay any more taxes to Olenna because she assaulted another Reachman in a lovers' quarrel. So she does the best she can: picks up the bottle of Arbor Gold and pours it over Mathis Hightower's head. While he coughs and sputters in disbelief, she retrieves his belt and ties it around her waist, turning his shirt into a dress before storming out of the restaurant.

But the fatal blow comes the following week when Archmaester Marwyn calls her to his office with news about her thesis research.

"I wanted to give you a heads up before you receive the letter," he hesitates. "The Citadel sold it."

Sarella raises a brow. "They did what?"

"Once you submit for publishing, it's technically the Citadel's property. Under normal circumstances, they print it exclusively for the vaults in the library."

"Why aren't these normal circumstances?"

"Someone with a lot of money and pull at the Citadel doesn't want your app developed or the associated research published. So they paid to bury it."

Sarella sits back in the chair and stares at the tiled ceiling. It would feel good to knock all the papers off Marwyn's desk. Or rip every book on his shelves to shreds with her bare hands. No, she thinks. What she really wants is to burn the Hightower to the ground.

* * *

** _PRESENT DAY_ **

Mathis walks around the table to face her, eyes drinking her in as they frequently did three years ago. He's broader, she thinks. Less boyish. He's still in his white collared shirts. Before speaking again, he shoves his hands in his pockets, hiding his bright gold wedding band. "What brings you by? Reminiscing on the old days?"

Following the debacle with her thesis, Sarella spent a few months in Dorne training with her sisters and waiting for construction on her loft to finish. She returned to Oldtown focused on learning the dark web and running recon on her sisters' missions. Her work in the field made her Citadel work look like child's play in hindsight. Developing a cybersecurity software package, _The Watch_, was a fun side project--a way to keep up appearances. Selling it as an antidote to Hightower privacy overreach was an added bonus.

How did she ever find his banal yammering engaging, she wonders, rolling her eyes. "I've had much better days since then, Mathis. Though it sounds like you haven't."

Thankfully, they are interrupted by a tall, striking woman with mahogany skin, dressed in deep purple, her silver twists wrapped tightly atop her head in an intricate bun. Narra Sono Qo whips off her shawl as she approaches the table. "Sorry for the tardiness, my dear," her grandmother sings in her Summer Isles lilt. "These Westerosi love to hear themselves talk." She passes her shawl to Mathis. "Check this for me, please? I didn't see a coat check on my way in."

Mathis isn't used to not being recognized. Now it's Sarella's turn to smirk while he tries to hide the insult. "I'm Mathis Hightower. And you must be Sarella's lovely grandmother. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Qo."

Her grandmother's coal eyes dart between the two of them. "Mathis, you say? Why does that name sound familiar?"

Another reason Sarella did not want to meet here. Before marrying her grandfather and joining the Qo family, her grandmother was Narra Sono, of the notorious Summer Isles Sono crime family. In the old days, ambitious second sons of Westeros houses sought their fortunes south in lands beyond the Summer Sea and learned the hard way the Sonos were not to be trifled with. Carrying a name as powerful as Sono-Qo gave her grandmother a certain gravitas and an utter lack of patience.

His smugness returns. "Your granddaughter and I are old friends. We were just catching up."

"That's not what I recall," her grandmother replies, her thick brow arched. "Since this is your family's establishment, can you please see that we're waited on soon? I'd like a glass of your oldest Walano Red."

A smart, well-mannered man would walk away, but Mathis could never resist a verbal joust. And could never tell when he was outmatched. "Does my reputation precede me?"

Narra picks up Sarella's wine glass and takes a sip, eyes narrowing at Mathis. "You crossed my granddaughter. Her father's family may look the other way, but mine has no incentive to ignore such a slight--" He starts to respond, but she interrupts him. "Before you say another word, Young Man, be aware I could have your tongue cut out and your family would do nothing about it. If you doubt this, tell your grandfather Leyton and his liege Lady Olenna that Narra Sono sends her regards."

Mathis knows just enough to go white at the mention of his "liege."

Her grandmother is finished with the conversation and looks down to examine her menu. "My Walano Red, please?"

"I'll see that someone brings it shortly."

Sarella shakes her head and smiles. "You didn't have to do that."

"Nonsense. If I was haunted by every regrettable cock in my past, I'd never sleep at night," Narra reaches across the table and grabs her hand. "Now. How is my brilliant granddaughter doing these days?"


End file.
